


antinomy

by figure8



Series: common tongue [3]
Category: EXO (Band), K-pop, SHINee
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Morally Ambiguous Character, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Revolution, Slow Burn, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 19:04:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16959759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: Who’s gonna fund the revolution?Them, apparently.--Born too gentle in a world too cruel, Kim Junmyeon chooses to play by his own rules. He sheds his past behind and becomes Suho, leader of a revolutionary cell that steals from the rich while patiently building an underground movement, and gives back to the people.Enter Oh Sehun, a young man with too much rage at the tip of his fingertips and too much sadness hiding in the corner of his rare smiles.Junmyeon takes him in because he thinks he can save him. Instead, he falls in love.





	antinomy

**Author's Note:**

> GOD, here it is. probably the most ambitious thing i’ve ever written in my life.  
> as per usual, a lot of it is already written, so i’ll try to update regularly.  
> this is marked as part of a series because i’m also working on a series of prequels about secondary characters, but while i think it’s *better* to have read them, it absolutely isn’t necessary. the seho storyline starts and ends here. 
> 
> it’s a dystopia, and it’s also veeeery vaguely inspired by the monster mv, and also less vaguely by the russian revolution, so, a couple disclaimers:  
> > i had to age down some characters and age up some others for plot coherency. i’ve tagged for age difference to be safe, but both sehun and junmyeon are adults when they meet and adults when they engage in a consensual romantic/sexual relationship. that being said, there *is* an eight year age gap between them.  
> > the world the characters live in is a very, very harsh one. if you want a detailed list of trigger warnings, please don’t hesitate to ask, but i can already warn for graphic violence, mentions of sex trafficking, mentions of physical abuse, slavery, prison violence, and torture. i’ll do my best to warn specifically before every chapter.  
> > i know this all sounds very grim kgjgjg, but this is, in the end, a story about love and hope, and the good guys win in the end. i promise.

**an·tin·o·my**

/anˈtinəmē/

_noun_

1: a contradiction between two beliefs or conclusions that are in themselves reasonable; a paradox.

2: a fundamental and apparently unresolvable conflict or contradiction.

 

-

 

_Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine._  

— Richard Siken

 

-

 

The boy—because that is what he is, a _boy_ , not a man, can’t be much older than eighteen—looks more like a feral cat than a human being. There is an old bruise blossoming over his cheekbone, yellow swirling into purple, stretched into a weird ovaloid every time he smiles. He smiles a lot, while he fights; it’s the smile of a thief, the type of sly grin Junmyeon is used to seeing on his own men after a job well done. In the ring, with his fists, the boy steals his opponent’s breath away with a nice uppercut, the punch clean and efficient. It’s not the kind of theft Junmyeon himself dabbles in, but it’s beautiful to watch all the same. Like ballet, every hit choreographed meticulously, the boy’s lithe body twisting and turning like a flame at the tip of a lighter. Junmyeon leans back against the wall behind him and motions to the tall man clad in black leather who’s observing the duel with almost as much involvement as if he’s fighting it himself. It’s as good as, really, Junmyeon knows. Zitao is the one who collects the money from the bets.

“Ten credits on the boy,” Junmyeon tells him. Zitao cocks his head to the side wordlessly, raises an old, battered chip reader so that Junmyeon can tap his credit ring against it. In the ring, the boy kicks the older, much bigger man he’s fighting in the chest, sending him flying against the ropes. “He’s good,” Junmyeon adds. Then, a lie, to coax the most he can out of Zitao: “I haven’t seen him here before.”

Zitao smirks at that. “You can ask directly, you know.” Junmyeon rolls his eyes.

“If you know what I’m asking, why play coy?”

“Because he’s not for sale,” Zitao says, and is that a hint of possessiveness Junmyeon detects in his tone? It’s not like him at all, getting attached.

“Who said I was looking to buy? I’m just curious, I swear.”

“You’re never just curious, Suho,” Zitao shakes his head. “His name is Sehun,” he supplies nonetheless. Around them, the crowd clamors: the boy— _Sehun_ is straddling his opponent, driving his fist repeatedly into the other man’s face, jaw locked tight in concentration. The bell rings, _ding ding ding_ loud and piercing in Junmyeon’s ear, and Sehun stands up immediately, raises his hand with two fingers pointing to the sky, a V for victory. The loudspeaker announces his name, and the cheers explode like fireworks. Junmyeon’s ring vibrates against his skin, two short buzzes to inform him money was just transferred into his account. He smiles, satisfied.

“I’ll buy you a drink,” he tells Zitao. “Tell me more about the boy.”

Zitao repeats _He’s not for sale_ , but he accepts the shot of soju all the same, downs it and slams the empty ceramic cup against the counter and immediately demands another. Junmyeon obliges, because he just made 25 credits he didn’t plan on making tonight, and because he knows from experience Zitao’s tongue unties itself after half a bottle of sweet liquor.

“He’s twenty-two,” Zitao says, laughs when Junmyeon’s eyes widen in surprise. “I know, he looks younger. It’s the stage lights, partly.”

It’s also that he’s starving, most likely. But that’s a general, much too common problem around here.

“You say he’s not for sale,” Junmyeon prods.

“No debt,” Zitao confirms. “He’s here willingly. Comes back, every week. Even when someone makes him eat dirt. He always comes back.”

“Interesting,” Junmyeon murmurs.

Zitao glares. “I know that look,” he says accusingly. “I’m not drunk enough not to recognize that look.” He finishes his third cup, licks his bottom lip to collect a stray drop. “You can’t steal him,” he waves a finger right in front of Junmyeon’s nose. “Not this one.”

Junmyeon chuckles. “You make me sound terrible, Taozi.”

“You _are_ terrible,” Zitao sniffs. “I don’t know why I keep allowing you in here.”

“Because you love me,” Junmyeon shoots back without thinking, but Zitao’s slight wince tells him he’s not that far off the mark. “Tao...” he says, gentler.

“Shut up,” Zitao shushes him. “Don’t let it get to your head. And stay away from Sehun. I mean it, Suho.”

 

He doesn’t stay away from Sehun. He wasn’t planning to, crossed his fingers behind his back like a child when Zitao made him _promise_ , but in the end it’s Sehun that finds him, literally walks into him as Junmyeon is trying to get back inside the club after a short cigarette break. He almost doesn’t recognize the boy, who isn’t shirtless anymore and has taken a shower, washing away the blood and sweat. He has a hood on, protecting his still humid hair from the cold air of Seoul in October.

“Sorry,” he mutters, eyes glued to the ground. His voice surprises Junmyeon, deeper than he expected it to be.

“No problem,” Junmyeon says. “Sehun, right?”

If Sehun is startled that a stranger knows his name, he doesn’t show it.

“Depends on who’s asking,” he says warily.

“I’m Suho,” Junmyeon introduces himself, extending a hand. Sehun doesn’t shake it.

“I’ve heard of you,” he says instead. His eyes slant slightly, making him look even more feline. “You’re… short.”

“I get that a lot,” Junmyeon chuckles.

“Are you here for me?” Sehun asks, cutting to the chase.

Junmyeon sees no interest in lying. “Yes,” he says. “I watched you tonight. I could use someone like you.”

“I don’t play well with others,” Sehun says.

“You can learn,” Junmyeon counters. “I’ve studied your pattern,” he continues. “You win often enough to make money, but you lose strategically, too. 60-40, perfect average, just enough to be _good_ but go unnoticed.”

“I don’t like attention,” Sehun says, and he’s growing restless. There is a slight shake to his tone. “Last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime.”

Junmyeon laughs at that, a full-throated chortle. “You know who I am, boy.” Sehun nods, even though it was a rhetorical question. “Then you know I don’t care much about what counts as a _crime,_ ” he finishes with a roguish grin.

“I’m not going to work for you,” Sehun says.

“No one works _for_ me,” Junmyeon says. “How about _with_ me?”

“You talk like a politician,” Sehun says. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re in the wrong line of work.”

It makes something tug at Junmyeon’s heart. The kid is observant, and he has a quick mouth. Junmyeon _likes_ him, and he’s known him for exactly fifteen minutes. The last time he latched onto someone like that, he almost got himself and Jongdae killed. Jongdae calls it his “damn maternal instinct”. Junmyeon would protest, but he calls himself _Guardian_ for a reason. Jongdae isn’t exactly wrong.

“I’m sort of like a politician,” he tells Sehun. “If you think about it.”

“What,” Sehun laughs dryly, “Because you con people out of shit?”

“Because I’m trying to change the world,” Junmyeon says. “But that too, I guess.”

Sehun doesn’t say anything for what feels like a long time. Then, still watching Junmyeon with this strangely intense gaze of his: “Politicians don’t want to change the world. They want to keep it exactly as it is.”

“The ones you know, maybe,” Junmyeon says. “Don’t think I don’t see right through how you’re avoiding the subject.”

“I have to go back inside,” Sehun says. Junmyeon knows when to accept defeat. He lets him go.

 

Junmyeon goes to watch Sehun fight again. The second time, he leaves right after the duel ends, throws one last glance at Sehun when he’s at the threshold of the club, takes in the image of him covered in blood and scrapes and bruises and _victorious_ , rageful like a lion. Zitao observes him as he goes, half to make sure Junmyeon keeps his promise, half because he’s always loved to watch Junmyeon leave.

The third time, Junmyeon takes Jongdae with him. Or, to be more exact, Jongdae asks him where he’s going, and Junmyeon forgets that he sucks at lying to him, and the next thing he knows, his best friend is climbing behind him on his bike.

“Okay,” Jongdae whistles under his breath, eyes glued to Sehun as he barrels into his opponent, “I get it.”

Jongdae isn’t easily impressed, but neither is Junmyeon, so this isn’t exactly a surprise. Still, Junmyeon smirks contently. He doesn’t need to voice the _I told you so_ currently bubbling up inside his throat. Jongdae has known him for 21 of his 30 years of life, he knows when Junmyeon is feeling particularly smug.

“Maybe he’ll listen to you,” Junmyeon shrugs. His eyes find Zitao’s across the room. Zitao’s hair isn’t slicked back today, instead just falling right above his eyes, and he looks good. He always looks good, objectively, but this particular aesthetic choice reminds Junmyeon of how Zitao looked when they first met, younger and softer.

Jongdae narrows his eyes. “You never give up a challenge this easily. Does me suddenly inheriting recruiting duties have anything to do with how you’re looking at Huang Zitao like you’re about to eat him?”

Zitao laughs at something, and he throws his head back, exposing his throat. Junmyeon stares at the tanned, unmarked expanse of skin. “Uh?”

“Okay,” Jongdae snickers. “At least now we know for sure you don’t _only_ come here looking for talent. Kai owes me five credits.”

Junmyeon pushes himself off his barstool. “I’ll be right back. Grab Sehun if he looks like he’s about to head out, I really do need to talk to him.”

Jongdae just keeps cackling like the fake friend that he is.

Junmyeon makes his way through the crowd, only has to elbow two people to arrive at the other side of the room, closer to the restrooms. The _M_ doubles as an underground fight club _slash_ casino on Fridays and Saturdays, sure, but the rest of the week it is a perfectly _respectable_ establishment, and to keep up that facade it needs somewhat clean toilets. Junmyeon has always been grateful for that.

“Hey,” he greets Zitao, slithering in next to him. Zitao looks like Junmyeon’s presence is somehow making him simultaneously elated and miserable. His mouth tightens into a thin pink line, but there is something akin to longing in his dark pupils.

“I told you to leave him alone,” he tells Junmyeon severely instead of greeting him back.

Junmyeon raises an eyebrow. “You in love with him, or something?”

“No,” Zitao says, and there’s something in the way he pronounces the word that makes Junmyeon believe him, unquestionably. “But I do love him. You’re not taking him from me.”

_Like you took Yifan_ goes unsaid, but it hangs heavy between them.

“I didn’t come here for him,” he says, half the truth. Zitao doesn’t believe him, but he’s gracious enough to play along.

“What did you come here for, then?” he breathes out, his voice dropping an octave lower. Junmyeon places a warm hand on his knee, drags it upwards.

“You know what I’m here for, Taozi.”

He fucks Zitao inside one of the bathroom stalls, Zitao’s face pressed against the door, Junmyeon’s palm splayed open between his shoulder blades. Zitao moans his name brokenly with every thrust, _Suho Suho Suho Suho_ —not Junmyeon _,_ never _Junmyeon._ It’s been years since he’s called Junmyeon anything but his street name. It puts a distance between them Junmyeon thinks he understands, even if he hates it. Zitao doesn’t look at him as he tucks himself back into his pants, when they’re done.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says right outside the restrooms. “I know you want Sehun. You wouldn’t have brought Chen along, if you didn’t.” Junmyeon doesn’t really have anything to answer to that. “I can’t make his decisions for him,” Zitao continues. “But if I mean anything to you, anything at all...”

“You mean a lot to me, Tao,” Junmyeon interrupts him. “I know you know that.”

“Then don’t take him from me,” Zitao pleads again. “He’s all I have left.”

Junmyeon’s stomach twists violently. “You could always come home,” he says quietly.

“It’s not home,” Zitao shakes his head. “It hasn’t been home in a long time. You know that.”

Junmyeon doesn’t. He misses Yifan—they all do—, but it doesn’t make the rest of his family any less his _family._ His boys.

It’s different, for Zitao, evidently. Junmyeon wishes he had seen it before it all went down. He has strict rules against fraternization now, not that he’s ever had to enforce them.

“You’re right,” he tells Zitao. He wishes it didn’t sound so harsh. “You can’t make his choices for him.”

Zitao watches him for a full minute, silent. “You’ve always been cruel,” he settles on saying, finally. “You’re just so good at hiding, most of the time, that we all forget.”

They live in a world that turns everyone cruel, Junmyeon wants to argue. Instead he runs a finger along the sharp line of Zitao’s jaw. Zitao shivers.

“I’ll take good care of him,” he says. “For you.”

“He’s like my brother,” Zitao begs. “He _is_ my brother.”

“Then you know he’s wasting away, here,” Junmyeon says. “That’s why you’re scared. You know he’s meant for greater things, just like you are. You’re welcome to follow him,” he presses again, because he’ll deny it if anyone asks, but he’s always had a soft spot for Zitao. “You’re always welcome wherever I am, Taozi.”

Zitao recoils at that, away from Junmyeon’s touch. It stings just a tiny bit.

“If you get him killed,” Zitao says, ice-cold, “I’ll take something from you. I’ll find whatever it is that you treasure the most, and I’ll take it.”

Junmyeon grins, wide and cocky. “Well then, we’re all good. I haven’t always been the best of leaders,” Zitao scoffs at that, “But I’ve never gotten any of my boys killed, and I don’t plan on starting now.”

 

~

 

The house, at its fullest, once housed nine people. Nowadays it only has five full-time residents, because as much as Junmyeon likes to call them _his_ boys, they don’t really belong to him. Or not only.

Baekhyun is lounging on the spare mattress they pulled out yesterday for Jongin in the middle of the living room and then never put back against the wall. Jongin lives with his sister and her kids, but once in a while, he’ll stay the night. The weeks leading to a job, all of them move in together temporarily. They’re in-between right now, but Jongin is a social animal, hates emptiness and silence almost as much as he hates the government.

The _house_ , really, is an abandoned apartment building. Most of it is not actually habitable, considering the exterior walls are crumbling to pieces; but the center rooms are still intact, and no one really checks up on this part of the city. It’s ideal for now, even if Junmyeon knows there will come a time when they’ll have to move. It’s a miracle they have lasted this long, to be honest.

Baekhyun, legs propped up against the tattered couch in the middle of the room, gives Junmyeon a long, upside-down look. He looks ridiculous, head hanging topsy-turvy at the edge of the grey ratty mattress.

“Looking good, Boss,” he grins.

Junmyeon, who knows he currently looks anything _but_ good, glares. Baekhyun’s big smile doesn’t falter. It’s impressive, really, how dedicated Baekhyun is to being _happy_ , all the time. On the surface, it doesn’t make sense, after everything he’s been through. But Junmyeon knows it’s his coping mechanism, just like breaking through firewalls is Jongdae’s, and collecting strays is Junmyeon’s. Baekhyun, more than any of them, knows the horrors of their world intrinsically, and chooses to be a light in the darkness.

“Where is everyone?” Junmyeon inquires, opening the small portable fridge under their only table. He fishes a half-eaten protein ration from it, bites into the chewy brown square and grimaces. It truly doesn’t get any better with time.

“Jongin went back to his own place,” Baekhyun starts enumerating, “Jongdae is in his office doing Lord knows what, and last time I saw Chanyeol he was passed out on your bed.”

Baekhyun is terrible at aliases. Refuses to get one, refuses to call any of them by theirs, except when they’re right in the middle of a job, because he’s not a _complete_ moron. He has, at least, the decency to call Junmyeon _Boss_ most of the time. Junmyeon hates what the word represents, but in Baekhyun’s mouth it’s gently mocking, affectionate, so it doesn’t really count. Baekhyun, like the rest of them, despises authority, but he has particular reasons to _fear_ it, and the title, on some level, implies _trust_. Junmyeon appreciates that. Every time Baekhyun says _Boss_ , it’s an unspoken _thank you_ ; and while Junmyeon has never done anything in his life expecting _gratitude_ for it _,_ he still drinks it like nectar.

The last thing Baekhyun said suddenly registers in Junmyeon’s brain. “Chanyeol is _what?_ ”

Baekhyun _cackles._ “In your bed. I think he’s sleepwalking again.”

“More like _drunk_ walking,” someone snickers from behind them. Junmyeon turns to face Kyungsoo, who’s wearing a huge red sweater that definitely doesn’t belong to him. “He came home at three in the morning and crashed directly into your room,” Kyungsoo continues, seeming entirely too entertained by the whole thing.

“Hey,” Baekhyun protests. “Snitches get stitches, Soo! First rule of prison!”

Kyungsoo snorts. “How would _you_ know?”

Junmyeon interrupts them before they can get into a heated debate over Baekhyun being “too pretty to go to jail”.

“Has anyone checked up on him?”

Baekhyun says he _has_ , but Baekhyun would say anything to get Junmyeon off his back, so Junmyeon goes into his own room to make sure his best marksman hasn’t choked in a pool of his own vomit, or something.

Junmyeon has one of the only actual beds in the house. It has a metallic frame and a somewhat decent mattress, no holes in it, which means people who aren’t Junmyeon get to use it if they’re injured or in dire need of real rest. Chanyeol is, as far as Junmyeon know, neither of these two things. He’s laying face down on the bed, snoring loudly, and Junmyeon can see a small round wet spot on the white pillowcase right next to his mouth. _Great_.

“Loey,” he tries, nudging Chanyeol’s arm. Chanyeol just keeps snoring. “ _Chanyeol_ ,” Junmyeon says, louder. Chanyeol _jumps_ as if electrocuted, letting out a string of swear words. Junmyeon stares patiently, unimpressed.

“Jesus _fuck_ , Suho,” Chanyeol sighs when his chest stops heaving. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“It’s four in the afternoon,” Junmyeon says dryly.

“I came in late last night.”

“I can see that. Care to explain why you’re not in your own room?”

Chanyeol, at only twenty-six, is one of the best snipers Junmyeon has ever encountered, and he wasn’t even trained by a professional. He also has, among other things, a serious drinking problem.

“I couldn’t do...” Chanyeol gestures vaguely, “...stairs. At the time.”

Junmyeon shakes his head, hopes his disappointment is palpable. If Chanyeol’s imitation of a kicked puppy is anything to go by, it’s a success. “Just make yourself presentable.”

“Yessir,” Chanyeol replies immediately, scrambling to get to his feet. He leaves Junmyeon alone in his room, facing the dirty white wall. Chanyeol is a good kid. Smart as hell, too, and too good at what he does. He shoots so well because he pours all of himself into it, becomes one with the rifle. The issue is that while he was supposed to be growing up, he perfected his aim. He’s still the lost boy Junmyeon brought in four years ago, not any less lost, even if he now has a roof above his head.

“Hey,” a voice takes him out of his thoughts. Jongdae’s head is peaking through the semi-open door.

“Hey,” Junmyeon smiles tiredly. It’s easy, with Jongdae. They know each other too well to keep secrets. Junmyeon lets his worry show, and Jongdae immediately slips inside the room, closes the door behind him.

“Why do you look like you were force-fed an expired protein ration?” he asks carefully, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“I’m worried about Loey,” Junmyeon admits.

“You’re always worried about all of them,” Jongdae counters.

Junmyeon raises an eyebrow. “And you aren’t?”  

Jongdae laughs softly, that particular crystallin chuckle of his, so entirely _Jongdae_ it makes Junmyeon a little dizzy with love. “I’m worried about _you_ ,” his best friend says. “Someone has to.”

Junmyeon doesn’t say _I’m fine_ , even though it’s on the tip of his tongue. The truth is he doesn’t know if he’s _fine_ , hasn’t had the luxury to ask himself that specific question in quite a while. Jongdae, who has been by his side since day one, understands that better than anyone.

“I’m thinking of going back to the club,” Junmyeon says, redirecting the conversation to _work._ That, at least, he fully knows how to deal with. Always has.

“For the boy?” Jongdae asks, sarcasm dripping through the words, “Or to say hi to Zitao?”

Junmyeon rolls his eyes. “For the boy.”

Jongdae bites his bottom lip pensively. He’s making _the face_ , the one that means he disagrees with Junmyeon but doesn’t know how to formulate it yet. “He’s a good fighter,” he starts diplomatically.

“I sense a _but._ ”

Jongdae glowers. “You know me so well,” he deadpans. “Yes, there’s a _but._ We don’t _need_ him. There’s eight of us, counting you. That’s enough. We’re doing good.”

“We could do better.”

“No,” Jongdae shakes his head. “Objectively, at this point, bringing someone new in is only going to set us back.”

“Sehun is—”

“Young and wounded, I get it,” Jongdae cuts him off. “Just your type.”

Junmyeon stares at him, affronted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, Jun. We don’t lie to each other. Let’s not start today.”

It sends Junmyeon back through time, the memories so vivid they’re suffocating. _We don’t lie to each other_ , whispered in the dark, Jongdae curled up on the cot next to his. _Tell me what you need._

What Junmyeon had needed, at the time, was to get the hell out of basic training. Jongdae had made good on their childhood promise to follow him to the end of the world, into hell if he had to. They deserted together, shed their names like snake skin and disappeared into the night, or so legend has it. They’re infamous enough now that the story circulates, but it’s an embellished version of the truth, like all myths. Reality is much harsher: fleeing the camp was easy, what came after was a lot harder. If he closes his eyes, Junmyeon can still feel the sharp hurt that came with sleeping in the snow with nothing but his best friend and a blanket for heat. The hunger, too; a hunger so devastating it made something mutate inside of him, turned him into a man much earlier than he was supposed to.

So maybe Jongdae is right. Maybe Junmyeon has a pattern, a bad habit of seeing himself reflected in broken boys with nowhere to go. It’s almost compulsive, like an addiction, Junmyeon’s hands trembling with restlessness. Junmyeon is a strategist—what he does best is _plan_. He’s at his peak with a goal in mind, devising the best way to achieve it. Sehun, really, is a _mission_.

“He’s going to die, out there alone,” he tells Jongdae.

His best friend inhales deeply, visibly exhausted. Junmyeon knows Jongdae hasn’t slept correctly in days, kept wide awake by the bright LED light of his computer screen. “Possibly,” he says. “He could also very well make it, like the thousands of other people in similar situations.”

“I could make him great,” Junmyeon says. “I saw it in his eyes. When he fights, there is something, there. More than just rage.”

“Yeah,” Jongdae scoffs, “He’s probably high out of his mind. I would be, too, if I had to take punches like that twice a week.”

“No,” Junmyeon says sternly. “I know how to recognize an addict. He fights with a clean head. Someone taught him how to take the pain.”

There is something akin to bitterness in Jongdae’s voice when he speaks again. “You’ve made up your mind, anyway.”

Junmyeon’s stomach tightens with unease. “You know that’s not how it works. You’re my partner.”

“Really, Jun? If I say no, you’re going to leave it alone?”

“I won’t be happy about it, but yeah.”

Jongdae sighs. “You’ve never left anything alone in your _life_.”

It’s true—and it isn’t. Junmyeon can think of quite a few things he _gave up_ on.

“I’m not going to fight with you over a boy I barely know, Dae.”

“Okay,” Jongdae says. “Okay. We can go watch him again tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Don’t perk up like that, you look like a dog,” Jongdae snickers. Then, serious again: “Just tell me one thing.” He puts his hand on Junmyeon’s forearm. His skin is warm, the touch familiar. Junmyeon nods. “Is this about Zitao?”

_Is this about Yifan?_

“This is about _Sehun_ ,” Junmyeon answers, hoping he sounds firm enough.

“Okay,” Jongdae repeats. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” Junmyeon says. “Thank you for—,” he stumbles on the words, “Not just this,” he finishes lamely. Jongdae knows. His fingers dance down the inside of his arm so that they can interlink with Junmyeon’s. He squeezes, and Junmyeon squeezes right back, wordless communication.

In the dead of winter, almost ten years ago, he remembers Jongdae holding his hand, tighter than a vice, as if letting go meant letting go _forever._

 

~

 

Sehun isn’t winning tonight. He still takes every hit like a champ, but his form is getting weaker by the second, his guard lowering with every step he’s forced to take backwards, until his back hits the thick ropes surrounding the ring. His opponent, a tall man with bleached hair and long scars along his biceps, sends his foot flying into Sehun’s jaw. Sehun turns his head at the last second, to ease the impact, but the sickening _crack_ is still audible all the way down to where Junmyeon and Jongdae are standing. Jongdae winces, his hand finding Junmyeon’s wrist and wrapping around it, the hold bordering on painful.

Sehun grunts, blood trickling from his lips. Junmyeon came in early tonight, securing a spot close to the ring to watch, and from here he can see the bandages around Sehun’s knuckles are red and wet. He’s panting, desperately trying to catch his breath, but the other fighter doesn’t let him, pummels him until Sehun is barely standing, one hand pathetically clutching the rope behind him.

“That’s enough,” Jongdae says, making a move like he’s about to jump into the ring himself. Junmyeon grabs his arm.

“Don’t intervene,” he mutters under his breath.

“ _Jun,_ ” Jongdae hisses, “He’s going to die.”

“There are rules. He needs to either pass out or surrender.”

Junmyeon doesn’t _enjoy_ violence, but he recognizes the necessity of it. What they’re currently witnessing is the very example of unnecessary, gratuitous pain as entertainment. Junmyeon appreciates the beauty of a good duel, but he draws the line at pure brutality. The mass of people around them, however, must find something amusing in watching Sehun get knocked out, if the happy shouts erupting from all sides are any indication.

Sehun refuses to yield. It’s not surprising; it’s the same iron will he showed when Junmyeon tried to recruit him, the night they met. Junmyeon wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t recognized it in the way Sehun held himself. He spits out a mouthful of hemoglobin, pushes himself up shakily. His left knee twists at the wrong angle when he takes a step forward.

“He’s going to _die_ ,” Jongdae repeats, horrified.

“No,” Junmyeon shakes his head, amazement leaking through the single syllable. “Just watch.”

The room goes silent as Sehun advances towards his opponent, hand balled into a tight fist. Lips curled into an bestial grin, blood on his chin, he looks savage, barely human. The blond man stares at him dazedly, like he cannot quite comprehend what Sehun is still doing up.

Then, with no warning, Sehun lets out an animalistic scream and swings his leg up in a semi-circular motion, slamming it into the other man’s head. It’s a perfect round-kick, executed with _technique,_ not the kind one picks up in street fights—the kind one learns in a dojo.

The man crumbles like a house of cards. The crowd _roars_.

Sehun stumbles, the drops of remaining strength suddenly drained out of him. He catches himself on the ropes. His eyes meet Junmyeon’s, and there’s a flash of recognition there, for a fleeting second, before he shuts them closed.

 

It’s not hard to find Sehun, afterwards. Zitao lives in a small apartment nested on the second floor of the building, right above the club. He doesn’t own the _M_ , just manages it, but his boss is a busy man, establishments like this one littered all around the city. Junmyeon hasn’t seen him once, since Zitao got the job. What he’s seen plenty of over the years is the inside of Zitao’s flat, so it’s almost natural for him to climb up the stairs, Jongdae trailing behind him, a curious frown painted on his face. The door is closed but unlocked, so Junmyeon lets himself in. It creaks slightly as he pushes it, and Junmyeon half-expects Zitao’s voice to chastise him for not respecting his privacy, but nothing comes. It quickly becomes clear _why_.

Sehun is sitting on the couch in the living room, Zitao kneeling in front of him, a first aid kit open on the floor. There’s a basin, too, full of pinkish water, a used washcloth hanging precariously on the brim. Zitao is speaking to Sehun in hushed whispers, applying what Junmyeon supposes is chlorhexidine to every cut and scrape. Sehun’s body is a patchwork of brown and yellow, old contusions that never quite got the time to heal. There are new ones, developing right on top of the old, too. The larger one is on his left side, already bluish, purple on the edges. He probably broke a few ribs. When he turns to look at Junmyeon and Jongdae, his right eye is swollen shut. He smiles anyway.

“Enjoyed the show?”

“ _Sehun_ ,” Zitao chastises him immediately. “And _you,_ ” he points to Junmyeon accusingly, “What are you doing here?”

Junmyeon raises his arms up, palms facing frontwards, the universal sign for _I come in peace._ “Just came to check up on the champion,” he says as innocently as possible.

Zitao pinches the bridge of his nose tiredly. “I swear to fucking God.” He seems to notice Jongdae then, standing right behind Junmyeon. “Hey, Chen. Long time no see.”

Junmyeon is struck by the intense need to say something petty and childish, like _And whose fault is that?_

But Jongdae apparently knows how to be a mature adult sometimes, because he just smiles wistfully. “It’s good to see you, Tao.”

“I can’t deal with you two right now,” Zitao sighs. “Make yourself useful and grab me some clean water.” He gestures to the basin. Jongdae takes it and disappears into Zitao’s bathroom.

“Need anything from me?” Junmyeon asks.

“For you to be silent,” Zitao says dryly. Then, to Sehun, pressing a cotton pad to his brow ridge: “I don’t think you’re going to be needing stitches this time. It’s a goddamn miracle.”

“I won,” Sehun says, pride apparent in his voice. “You should be happy.”

Zitao’s features turn soft, but only for a millisecond. “You can’t perform next week. How happy do you think _that_ makes me?” Sehun immediately turns apologetic.

“The money from tonight,” he asks, uncertain. “How much—how much more did I make than the usual? You can take the surplus, you can—”

“Hey,” Zitao interrupts him, and suddenly Junmyeon feels like an intruder, and he wants to turn around, get away from how Zitao’s voice went gentle in a way Junmyeon thought was reserved for Yifan only—in a way Junmyeon thought had been relegated to memories. “Sehun, I don’t care about the money.”

Sehun stares at him, dumbfounded. “You’re not going to kick me out?”

“God,” Zitao laughs, a little hysterical, “You think I keep you around for the credits?” His eyes widen in realization. “Sehun, is that why—is that why you keep going back?”

Sehun doesn’t reply, pointedly looking at his feet. Junmyeon takes the opportunity in the sudden silence to say, “I’m gonna—I’m gonna leave.”

Zitao raises his hand, not even bothering to look at him. “You stay right there.” Junmyeon’s mouth snaps shut. Zitao scoots closer to the couch, pushes himself between Sehun’s legs, takes Sehun’s hand in his. “You scared me shitless today,” he finally says, quietly. “I don’t want you back in that ring.” Sehun raises his head.

“I brought the water,” Jongdae says in a small voice. He’s obviously been standing in the bathroom all this time, not knowing if he was allowed to come back. He shoots Junmyeon a worried glance, full basin wobbling in his hands.

“Put it next to me,” Zitao says, still holding Sehun’s gaze. He takes a clean washcloth, plunges it in the water, twists it above the basin to get rid of the excess. Then he drags it carefully down Sehun’s torso, getting rid of the last flakes of dried blood. When he’s done, he sets the washcloth down, and takes a deep breath.

Sehun frowns. “Tao?”

“I want you to consider Suho’s offer.”

“You _are_ kicking me out.” Sehun looks defeated. Zitao shakes his head.

“No, listen— _listen to me._ ” He points his chin towards Junmyeon and Jongdae. “This is an opportunity. I know you dream of more. I can’t give that to you.”

“I want to stay here,” Sehun protests, petulant like a child.

“No,” Zitao says. “You want freedom. That’s what you told me, when we met.”

“I’m free, here. Tao, please. I’m free.”

Junmyeon judges he’s waited long enough. “This isn’t freedom, kiddo,” he says gently. “Getting your ass beat every Friday of the month, that’s not freedom.”

“Then you don’t know slavery,” Sehun says, icy. “I do.”

It’s Jongdae who replies, before Junmyeon has the time to formulate a sentence, still processing the new information. “That’s very presumptuous of you to say.”

“I know who you are,” Sehun says. “Everyone does.”

This time, there’s a glimmer of amusement in Jongdae’s eyes when he speaks. “Everyone _thinks_ they do. What have you heard, that we’re thieves? That we terrorize simple middle-class folks who are just trying to live their lives?”

“You’re _mobsters,_ ” Sehun snorts. “Suho’s gang.”

Junmyeon grins. This is always his favorite part. He shoots a glance to Zitao, one last check. Zitao nods.

“We’re not the mafia, Sehun,” Junmyeon says. “We’re revolutionaries.”

 

~

 

At age sixteen, in a military camp, Kim Junmyeon had decided he would never bow to misused power. The gun in his hands had been too heavy, the idea of turning its muzzle to face a brother too bitter to ever swallow.

At age seventeen, Kim Junmyeon started calling himself Suho, _Guardian_. At first, it had been because his name, alongside Jongdae’s, was still being broadcasted fairly often—big bright red letters at the bottom of every screen during the evening news, WANTED FOR DESERTION. It wasn’t just them two, obviously. The list was long. At the time, the government hadn’t yet figured out snatching teenagers away from their homes to turn them into supersoldiers was a bad idea. The Soldier X program was shut down, though, yet Junmyeon never stopped going by Suho.

At age eighteen, Junmyeon met Yifan—Suho met Kris. Kris had big ideas and even bigger dreams, broken Korean twisting into swift Mandarin when he got a little too excited. Kris also had a friend, who introduced himself as _Lay._ Junmyeon understood pretty quickly that while Kris was undoubtedly the leader, Lay was the brain, and Lay was the _drive_. He juggled with concepts effortlessly, made words that sounded opaque suddenly turn transparent. It felt a little bit like getting eye surgery after a lifetime of not knowing you had bad vision.

Jongdae hadn’t been hard to convince. Junmyeon had thought he would be, but it made more sense this way, really. Jongdae had always been mellow-hearted, the love in him large enough to fill an ocean.

It was just the four of them, for what had felt like a long time. Living together, growing together, printing as many pamphlets as they could, sneaking into university libraries at night. They were so young, then, still so sure one could change the world solely through education.

Zitao had been the first lost boy Junmyeon had brought home. He had fit right in, an orphan just like Junmyeon, a martial artist just like Lay, sweet as honey and lethal at the same time, a kindness and authenticity to him that had them all a little bit in love in no time. Zitao was a quick student, and he spoke Chinese, which meant Lay could teach him faster. It was him who suggested it first. Stealing.

_Who’s gonna fund the revolution?_

Them, apparently.

It had worked so well at first. No one ever saw them coming. Jongdae knew his way around any security system, worked around wires and alarms with quick fingers and an even quicker mind. Lay and Tao used their bodies, undulating like snakes, knocking guards out in complete silence, muffled sounds, like the ninjas in the mangas Jongdae liked to read so much. Kris knew how to use his fists, but rarely had to. And Junmyeon… _Suho_ was the strategist, the mastermind of every plan. Banks, museums, mansions; no target was too ambitious. Nothing tasted better than pointing a gun at some rich asshole, grinning, _tax collection, motherfucker_.

At their peak, Junmyeon remembers bitterly, they had been so happy. On top of the world.

That is, until Yifan got caught.


End file.
